


it's gonna take a miracle

by antikytheras



Series: pantheon!verse [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Deity Au, Gen, Getting Together, M/M, and yuuri is a literal sex god, chris is a love god, don't wanna spoil the plot so not everything is tagged hehe, i dug my grave and now i have to lay in it, i made up the mythos don't worry bout it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 02:04:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9694955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antikytheras/pseuds/antikytheras
Summary: Chris might be a love deity, but it would probably take a thousand miracles just to get Viktor and Yuuri to confess already, dammit.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Valentine's Day 2017 and also as a birthday present for my favourite character, Chris :D
> 
> Very very loosely inspired by The Wicked + The Divine and Good Omens.

Every year, without fail, the same white envelope finds its way to Chris’s bedside table.

It’s night when he gets home, and he’s spent the entire day teased by the knowledge that it’s waiting for him. It’s always in the exact same position: perfectly centred atop his stack of books, lain there by an invisible hand.

When he crosses the threshold of the front door to his studio apartment, his home stirs. Overhead, a sphere of light slowly fades into existence, casting warm candlelight onto the dark wainscot and the regal green wallpaper, imbuing the pattern-repeated insignia with a soft golden glow. He slips off his shoes, bending down to arrange them neatly at the side of the entryway. Behind him, the front door swings shut soundlessly, seamlessly blending with the dark wood wainscot.

He walks past the kitchen. At the stove, a small fire bursts into life, cradling a scuffed metal pot which begins to fill with some kind of thick liquid. Soon, the vaguely pleasant smell of manna morphs into that of a rich, heavy beef stew.

Before he turns into the bedroom, he pauses at the entrance to the living area.

‘I’m home,’ he calls out, leaving echoes in the silence of the small apartment.

A shadowy figure rises from the plush beige sofa. The spectre leaves neither trace nor sound when it follows Chris into the bedroom.

Same as always, the envelope sits at his bedside table, waiting.

Chris picks it up. It barely weighs anything, containing only a single slip of paper. Just like last year, it’s not sealed. The flap opens with no resistance, and Chris pulls out his assignment.

The words are written in a divinely elegant golden script. He reads them.

By his side, the spectre gives a faint sound, almost like a keening, sorrowful sigh.

Chris chooses to express his feelings a little more directly. ‘Well, fuck.’

\--

‘So what you’re saying is, your Valentine’s job for the year is literally impossible?’

Chris buries his head in his arms and groans. ‘They’ve been at it for eons. _Eons_. If Time couldn’t get them together, what makes Up There think _I_ have any hope of doing anything?’

Phichit reaches over the table and pats his head consolingly. ‘There, there.’

They’re sitting in Phichit’s newest hipster café. The communications god had been quick to ride the trends, and now he’s raking in cash and followers thanks to his heavenly premonitions, delivered straight to his Instagram feed.

Phichit pushes a slice of cake over to Chris, who perks up at the movement. It’s definitely more than Instagram-worthy, chocolate decadence pooling on a flat marble slab that’s apparently supposed to be a plate. While Chris is staring at the ridiculously pretty (and expensive) confection, Phichit is talking. ‘What if you don’t manage to pull it off?’

‘I don’t know,’ he says honestly, ‘I’ve never failed before.’

The very thought of failure drops a pit into his stomach, stirring phantom fears that he thought he’d left behind a long time ago. Before he can react any further, he pushes it away.

Phichit is watching him with sadness crinkling his eyes and smile. He leans forward on the table, arms folded. ‘I guess you’ve got no choice but to do it, then.’

Chris has always found Phichit a little too perceptive for his taste. The communications god likes to lay low and let everyone forget about him while the flashier deities bicker over their petty arguments, but he knows that Phichit’s gifts are far more dangerous than they seem.

He pokes at the chocolate gateau moodily. ‘What are They even _thinking_?’

Outside, dark clouds gather.

‘I don’t know,’ Phichit sighs. ‘We’ve been away too long. We’re turning local.’

‘Us? Local?’ Chris doesn’t bother holding back his snort.

‘Yeah,’ Phichit says, raising an eyebrow. ‘Don’t you think so?’

‘Try being dogged by miracles everywhere you go, then get back to me on that.’ At the table next to theirs, a young man digging through his wallet suddenly finds the exact change for his overpriced meal.

‘Ah,’ Phichit remarks delicately, ‘right. But still, you know what I mean. Like you said, it’s been eons. When’s the last time you even thought of the Pantheon?’

‘Last night,’ Chris replies tersely.

Phichit lets it slide, pressing on. ‘Do you even remember what it looked like? The coliseum? Where did we sit? Did we even sit? For all I know we might’ve stood around for all eternity. Even I don’t remember anymore.’

Beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass walls at the café entrance, thunder breaks the mass of grey clouds. Rain pours down.

‘I remember what I need to,’ Chris snaps, ‘like my rose garden. It had—a maze, a big maze, and the roses— They were big and lovely and they, they were…’ That image, once so fond and familiar, is now but a blurry haze in his mind.

When he breathes, it feels like his lungs have turned to ice.

‘Red,’ Phichit reminds him gently. ‘They were beautiful and they were red.’

‘They were red,’ Chris exhales, covering his face with his hands. ‘They were red,’ he repeats, reminding himself again and again until the colour is permanently inked into his mind.

There’s a feather-light touch at his neck. When he looks up again, Phichit is staring at him with bare concern written all over his face, an arm reached out to comfort him. ‘Don’t worry,’ he murmurs, his thumb brushing small circles against the thundering rhythm of Chris’s pulse, ‘I’ll remember for you. For all of us.’

‘I know you do,’ he says quietly.

Phichit smiles. It’s not a joyful smile. ‘Sometimes I wish I didn’t,’ he says absentmindedly, the hand at Chris’s neck going to his hair and pulling away the too-red roses that had been miracled into existence.

He can feel his skin flushing pink. When’s the last time he lost control? Scratch that, when’s the last time _any_ of them lost control?

Shame welling up from deep within, Chris tries to change the subject. ‘But I’m lucky that you do, right?’ he chuckles. It sounds weak, even to him. ‘C’mon, give me the dirt on Yuuri.’

Phichit has the grace to look unalarmed. ‘You probably know as much as I do. He’s not exactly the most subtle person on earth.’

‘Then why hasn’t Vitya made his move yet?’ Chris sighs, frustrated, running his hand through his hair.

‘Shouldn’t you know him better than me? He doesn’t want to pressure Yuuri into anything, I think.’ Phichit is frowning. ‘He’ll wait for Yuuri to make the first move, especially since, you know, what with his anxiety and everything.’

A spark flies in his mind. ‘The last person who convinced Yuuri to do something. It was that war god, right? The other Yuuri?’

‘Yuri Plisetsky.’ Phichit picks up his phone, pulling up his messages using quick, well-practiced movements. ‘He’s in Kazakhstan right now, I think. Hanging out with the god of music. Otabek posted a photo of them together a couple hours ago.’

His throat swells shut. He needs to stay, especially if—

No, he can do this. He’ll complete his task and uphold his end of the bargain. He just has to find another way, that’s all.

‘I can’t go to Kazakhstan,’ Chris mumbles, defeated.

Phichit doesn’t even bother pretending not to know. ‘Keep him in this,’ he says, nodding at a _kradib khao neow_ on the table. It wasn’t there a moment ago.

Chris picks up the small bamboo rice basket, noting the communication god’s insignia carved all along the sides. ‘Thanks,’ he murmurs, pocketing it. Miraculously, it takes up almost no space at all.

Phichit pushes the cake towards him, much more aggressively this time. ‘Mm. And one more thing before you go.’

Chris is already shovelling the delicious chocolate gateau down his throat. ‘Yeah?’ he mumbles through a mouthful of vegan organic gluten-free deliciousness.

‘Next time, don’t enter my domain without sending a text in advance.’

\--

When he gets home, the apartment comes to life again.

The sun pours into the living area, leaving bright patches on the large, L-shaped sofa and the maroon carpet underneath. Chris throws himself onto the sofa with a groan, almost kicking the ornaments off his glass coffee table.

When he rolls over, he sees the spectre drift out of the kitchen, hovering questioningly.

Chris sets a light, charming smile on his lips and forces the lie past the lump in his throat. ‘Don’t worry, everything’s fine. Wouldn’t want you to tire yourself out before we even have any fun.’

The spectre drifts there for a few seconds more, uncertain. Then it turns away, elongating and darting back into the kitchen. It’s probably warming itself by the fire.

With a final sigh, the love god rolls himself off the sofa and onto the carpet, then picks himself up and starts packing.

He’s rolling up his underwear with his jeans when the gramophone sitting on a dark wood shelf abruptly crackles to life.

 _‘Now I rule the world and the starry sky spreading above_ ,’ it sings. The needle bounces on thin air. There’s no record on the machine.

‘Just one second!’ Chris calls out, throwing the rolls of clothing into a hand luggage bag. He marches over to the shelf in the living area when the music doesn’t stop playing.

‘ _I’ll never give up even if the night should fall_ —’

He hisses at the gramophone, ‘Don’t you _dare_ barge into my domain.’

The levitating ball of candlelight flares into existence over the possessed machine, illuminating the golden insignia repeated on the regal green wallpaper plastered all over the wall behind the shelf. In response, the gramophone decreases in volume but never completely stops, leaving a low murmur of barely-audible notes.

‘ _Always do my best, I look in the mirror…_ ’

Chris all but sprints into the kitchen, reaching for the _kradib khao neow_ still nestled in his pocket. ‘Hey,’ he says, urgency straining his voice, ‘come out, please?’

The spectre rises like smoke, emerging from the heart of the small fire burning at the stove. It gives a low keening cry when it notices the small rice basket in Chris’s hands, agitatedly stretching at the seams of its body and distorting into some awful thing.

‘Hey, hey, it’s okay,’ he soothes, hands extended to placate the restless shadowy figure. It hurts to see it acting like this. ‘It’s from Phichit, see? We can trust him. I trust him.’

The spectre seems to respond to his low, calm words, slowly shifting back into its barely-humanoid form.

‘I have to go to Kazakhstan, and I can’t leave you behind,’ he starts to explain, but the spectre is already obediently drifting over to the rice basket. Patiently, it waits.

Chris lifts the lid off the basket, and the spectre darts into it, a white mass curling around itself like a mouse huddled in a teacup.

‘Thanks,’ he whispers, replacing the lid and sealing the spectre in the enchanted prison.

He pockets the _kradib khao neow_ once again, then makes his way back out to the gramophone, which has begun to vibrate impatiently under the stern hover of the candlelight ball.

Chris dismisses the ball of light, then turns to face the front door. ‘Okay, okay, you can let yourself in now.’

Behind him, the gramophone resurges to full volume. _‘I can rule the world JJ just follow me_ —’

Chris doesn’t flinch when the front door is flung open and a certain god of song saunters in, loudly singing along with his own theme song. ‘I will break the walls now look at me!’

‘How about you try not to break down my door,’ Chris suggests wryly.

Never one to waste time on pleasantries, Jean-Jacques loudly proclaims, ‘I’m here to do you a huge favour! No need to thank me, just doing my good deed for the day!’

Chris crosses his arms and leans against the shelf, watching the exuberant song god with amusement. ‘And that would be? Leave your shoes at the door, by the way.’

Jean-Jacques kicks off his sneakers and bounces his way to the living room, flinging himself down on the sofa. ‘A little birdie told me that you’re going to Kazakhstan to find everyone’s favourite little war god.’

The front door smoothly swings shut, blending in with the dark wood wainscot once more.

‘Otabek?’ Chris guesses. Phichit wouldn’t talk to Jean-Jacques unless he were really desperate, but the communications god would certainly be nice enough to help him call ahead, if only to tell Yuri not to disembowel Chris for trespassing on Otabek’s domain.

‘Yeah, homie’s great.’ The song god sighs wistfully. ‘One day he might even think of becoming as great as I am.’

Chris rolls his eyes, but somehow a smile’s snuck onto his face. ‘Yeah, yeah. How have your concerts been doing?’ Jean-Jacques could probably go on about his performances all day. Maybe even two days. He’s a talented performer, of course, but his obsession with himself tends to alienate him from most of the Pantheon on earth.

‘Damn well, of course,’ Jean-Jacques boasts. ‘In fact, I’m performing in Kazakhstan the day after tomorrow. Otabek’s spinning for me.’

‘Nice.’ Chris whistles lowly.

Jean-Jacques is already helping himself to the bowl of chocolates on Chris’s glass coffee table. Swiss, of course. No other chocolate counts as real chocolate in Chris’s eyes. ‘Yeah, and that reminds me. How were you even planning to get to Kazakhstan? What were you gonna do, miracle your way there?’

If he’s completely honest with himself, he knows how ridiculous his original plan sounds. Because it is. Absolutely ridiculous, that is. ‘Well, yeah.’

‘Well you, my boy, are in luck.’ Jean-Jacques leaps off the sofa and swaggers over to Chris’s position at the shelf. ‘You can fly with me in my private jet. I’m leaving in five minutes.’

Chris frowns. How oddly charitable—

His gaze falls on the calendar hanging in the kitchen. Oh. _Oh_.

His lips curl up into a genuine smile. ‘Oh, _what_ did you do?’ He laughs.

The god of song is actually sweating a little. ‘Okay, look, performing on Valentine’s gets me the most attention, alright? I didn’t think she’d actually get all _upset_ or anything.’

‘So that’s the deal? I help miracle the problem away and you get me straight to Yuri Plisetsky?’

‘What?’ Jean-Jacques frowns. ‘No, no need for miracles or anything. Just. Sort this mess out for me.’

‘Take her out in the day and then get her a prime seat for the concert,’ Chris suggests, ‘then at the climax of your performance, let her come.’

Jean-Jacques looks a little disgusted, so Chris quickly continues, ‘Out. Come out. On the stage. Up on stage. You know what I mean.’

‘Oh! And declare my love for her in front of everyone?’

That works. He’ll sneak in a miracle if he has to. ‘Yeah, sure. They’ll probably think it’s super romantic and fantasise about being up there in Isabella’s position. You know. Just fangirl things.’

‘Nice. Okay, let’s go.’ Jean-Jacques is already making his way to the door, slipping his sneakers back on.

‘Wait,’ Chris protests, heading to his bedroom to pick up his bag, ‘let me get my stuff—’

‘Hurry up, I wanna be at the airport in two minutes.’ The younger god taps his foot impatiently. The motion gets on Chris’s nerves, but he lets it slide.

He takes one last look around the house. His insignia glows bright gold all over the apartment, infusing the walls of the house with a soft light.

‘ _C’mon_ , let’s go. I can’t even teleport out of here,’ Jean-Jacques complains. ‘Your wards are so unnecessary, man. No one even gives that much of a shit about domains. Not down here, at least.’

It’s not down here that he’s worried about. ‘I like to keep my home life and work life separate,’ he says primly instead. ‘Wouldn’t want my colleagues walking into my sex dungeon without me in it.’

‘Okay, gross, I’m out of here.’

When he gets dragged out of the doorway, Chris feels his influence fading. At his side, the god of song lets out a pleased hum. ‘Finally! I feel like myself again.’

‘Very funny—’

Jean-Jacques snaps his fingers.

And then they’re gone.

He feels song god’s power holding on to him tight, but there’s something soul-shakingly terrifying about flying across the country in seconds through streams of sound.

A bird song. Whispered conversation. Loud laughter. Running water. Angry shouting, bouncing uncontrollably along the walls of a long corridor. Hundreds of conversations throughout a mall. The purr of engines. Waves crashing onto a shore. Then, finally, the roar of airplanes pushing through the air.

They arrive at the check-in counter in the snap of his fingers.

Jean-Jacques whoops. ‘Great, we’re not late! There’s on-board dining so don’t bother with the Starbucks, just get the barista to take care of it.’

Chris should be used to the performer’s antics by now, but he still can’t believe his ears. ‘You have an on-board _barista_?’

‘Yeah.’ He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Well. It’s his money, not Chris’s. ‘Okay, but are they _cute_?’

Jean-Jacques chooses to ignore him and saunter over to the counter instead.

‘Kids these days,’ he grumbles, but he follows anyway.

In the rice basket stuffed into a pocket dimension, a spirit dozes, on the verge of fading away.

\--

The barista turns out to be fairly pleasant on the eyes, but her coffee is absolutely divine. Chris later learns that she doubles up as Jean-Jacques’s chauffeur when they depart from the airport and she hops into the driver’s seat of the rented limousine. Not one to miss out on the good things in life, Chris makes sure to get her number before he exits the limo.

Jean-Jacques has that disgusted look on his face again. ‘Really?’

‘It’s good coffee,’ Chris objects.

‘Whatever.’ The god of song turns away. ‘We’re here.’

The building before them would be best described as a solid black cube. Chris would have had a hard time finding the entrance without Jean-Jacques there to lead the way. In the darkness of the ungodly hours of the morning, the front door blends in perfectly with the walls of the building.

He doesn’t know how he ever thought he’d make it this far with only miracles.

‘Otabek’s show ends in about half an hour,’ Jean-Jacques explains off-handedly. ‘I guess you’ll have to entertain yourself in the meantime.’

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Chris purrs, ‘I know how to have a good time.’

Jean-Jacques wrinkles his nose again, but opens the door to the club without further comment.

The moment Chris steps in, he can feel the air change. The bass pumping throughout the club rattles him all the way down to his bones. He starts to fidget.

Jean-Jacques is already headbanging. ‘Oh yeah, that’s good shit. I’m feeling the inspiration for my next album already.’

Chris feels his heart pumping in perfect synchrony with the music, feels the blood roaring in his ears and coursing through his body. Unconsciously, he finds himself nodding in time to the beat. Adrenaline pulses within him, and he itches for release.

He doesn’t even realise that he’s made his way to the middle of the club until a strobe light pierces his eyes with blinding white. He blinks, suddenly all too aware of the bodies pressed against him, grinding against his ass, hands lovingly stroking his chest, sneaking down toward his—

He flinches back, and the tendrils of his own influence flee back to him. He sees the infatuation alight in the faces of the club-goers. Heart hammering, he slips into the role of a tease, wearing his most playful smile. But his eyes give him away. They’re too focused, too sharp when they dart around for an escape route.

But the music slips under his skin again, enticing him to re-synchronise his divine influence with the wavelength of the music. He’s being seduced by the addictive beat. It builds up gradually, starting off soft and weak like feather-light caresses, then gets louder and louder, the bass throbbing in his bones and pumping and pumping and culminating in a roaring crescendo of sound that demands release.

The beat drops.

 _Oh god_ —

He can’t think like this.

He’s back in the centre, and this time the unrestrained power of a love god pours throughout the club. It mingles with the powerful music, slipping into their systems and drugging mortal minds with ecstasy.

The track changes and just for a moment, he’s back.

He’s panting. Sweat pours down the lines of tense muscle, down his neck, his collarbone, down his abs, the sharp v of his hip bones—

No, he can’t lose himself again.

He forces his mind to focus on his beloved, of the deal he made with the Pantheon for the right to love a mortal, of the love he feels for the spectre fading away in his pocket while he grinds against some stranger in a random nightclub.

The sheer intensity of his emotion brings him back to himself, and he gathers up the blanket of love suffocating the club, drawing his power back to wrap a protective shield around himself. Like this, he stands against the music god’s relentless assault.

Something grabs his wrist tightly and yanks him out of the circle of dancers, dragging him over to a standing table in a much less heated corner. The entire club had been drawn to the centre of the room, whether they’d wanted to be there or not.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ the blond kid hisses angrily.

His mind is still buzzing. ‘What?’

‘Stop spilling your influence everywhere, you idiot!’ It’s the war god, it has to be, oh what a relief—

‘Your— The wards— Did you do something to—’ The beat is building up again, oh _god_ —

He’s smacked across the face. The harsh strike snaps him out of it.

‘Listen to my voice,’ the war god commands, pulling him down by the front of his shirt. ‘Stop doing whatever it is you’re doing. You’re fucking up Otabek and the both of you are just feeding off each other and the club is getting really fucking filthy.’

It’s so hard to concentrate on the boy’s voice. ‘Did you do something to the wards?’ Chris demands.

The war god flushes an ugly red. ‘So what if I strengthened them a little?’

‘You might have overdone it if a _love deity_ couldn’t hold back,’ Chris snaps. His mind is coming back, one piece at a time.

‘How would I know that this would happen?’ the war god snaps back.

‘Love and music are deeply connected,’ Chris explains through gritted teeth. He’s losing himself again. He can’t, not if he wants to stay with—

His fingers brush against the _kradib khao neow_ in his pocket and a wave of calm washes over him. Breathing comes easier, now.

‘They’re deeply connected,’ he says again, more surely this time, ‘and when a _war god_ puts his stamp of approval on a music god’s insignia, even I wouldn’t be able to control anything.’

‘I thought it would help him, okay?’ the war god grumbles. ‘Come to the DJ booth with me, you’re gonna get us all in trouble otherwise.’

‘I don’t think I can stand next to Otabek right now.’ Chris can vaguely imagine what would happen if a music deity, love deity _and_ a war god were to exist in the same small space.

‘Fine, he’s coming out in a couple minutes anyway. I’ll get rid of my mark if it bothers you that much.’ The war god storms off, leaving Chris in the corner.

The entire club is still feeling the effects of their combined influences, so Chris doesn’t feel too worried about anyone noticing when he spins his ball of candlelight into existence. He grimaces at the effort it takes to do something that should come easily to him. The physical manifestation of his power anchors him firmly, keeping his power contained to his own body.

He stands there for a couple of minutes, watching the miniature sun spin on its axis until the music changes and the music deity’s influence fades completely.

With a sigh of relief, he dismisses the ball of candlelight.

Otabek is walking towards him with a sheepish expression. It looks like a straight face to the average observer, but Chris has learned to read his emotions after the eons they’ve spent working together.

Love and music, caught up in a frenzy of emotion and intention. Chris remembers being exceptionally fond of the violin solos filling the golden air of the Pantheon.

Look at them now, reduced to horny club-goers having a three a.m. rendezvous.

‘Sorry about that,’ the music god apologises with a bow.

‘It was my fault too,’ Chris acknowledges. ‘I can’t remember the last time we lost ourselves like that.’

Otabek nods. ‘Phichit mentioned that you need to talk to Yuri?’

‘Yeah,’ he sighs, leaning against the wall. ‘It’s my Valentine’s job for the year. I’m supposed to play cupid for Vitya and Yuuri.’

Otabek frowns, crossing his arms and leaning forward against the standing table. ‘Sounds difficult.’

‘More like impossible,’ the war god snorts. Chris didn’t notice his entrance. ‘I’ve removed my insignia, by the way.’

‘Thanks,’ Chris says, relieved. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on who you ask), the club-goers are still going to be feeling the buzz for a while.

‘Yuri?’ Otabek’s one-word question is loaded.

‘Yeah, sure, I guess,’ Yuri grumbles. ‘They’re disgusting, you know?’

‘Who?’ Unlike Otabek, Chris’s one-word question is not-so-loaded.

‘The pig and the love-struck idiot.’ Yuri wrinkles his nose. ‘I thought you were the one who’d ruined Viktor, honestly.’

‘I’ve never had to put an arrow through him,’ Chris comments, ‘he got stabbed all on his own.’

Yuri ignores his insinuations. ‘It’s just a matter of time at this point. They’re already touchy enough as it is. Just wait for them to “accidentally” fuck or something.’

‘I don’t have time,’ Chris says evenly. ‘I need them to be together on Valentine’s.’

Yuri’s eyes flick over. Chris hadn’t noticed before, but they were unusually world-weary for his otherwise angelic features. ‘What’s in it for you, huh?’

‘My annual pay check from the Pantheon,’ Chris says wryly.

‘Touché,’ Otabek mumbles. He’d been content to listen, but if he’s responding then he must’ve run into a similar situation lately.

‘Argh, fine, I guess I’d rather they get it over and done with instead of making doe eyes at each other for the next three eternities,’ Yuri grumbles, reaching into a pocket and slamming a slip of paper down on the table.

Chris is a little sick of slips of paper at this point.

‘This is his childhood friend’s number. She might be able to help you too. Can you speak any Japanese?’

‘Yeah.’ Vitya had made Chris learn together with him when he’d first gotten infatuated with Yuuri. ‘How’d you convince Yuuri to change his mind, that time?’

Yuri doesn’t respond immediately, but something changes in his expression. It’s more open, less of the shell that he holds against the world and more of the ancient soul burning within. His reply is casual, but Chris knows the weight of his words. ‘If you’d asked me, I’d say the pig just needs a bit of a push, that’s all. Good luck.’

Chris slips the number into a regular jeans pocket. ‘Thanks.’

‘Just make sure he’s happy,’ is all the war god says before turning around and skulking off.

Otabek makes a move to follow, then pauses.

He leans in close, and Chris mirrors the movement, curious. His voice is barely audible when he whispers, ‘What’s your rate for Valentine’s miracles?’

Oh? How unexpected. A smirk lands on Chris’s lips. ‘For you? Oh, honey, I’d _pay_ to get in on this.’

\--

Never one to leave without saying goodbye, Chris hunts down Jean-Jacques, if only because he does owe him for the plane ride. Unsurprisingly, he finds him arguing with a DJ about pop music.

‘JJ is _indie_ , okay? Sure, I’m really popular and I have catchy beats, but I’m not cheap pop trash even if I am _popular_.’

‘Hey, sorry, I’ll borrow him for a sec.’ The DJ looks awfully relieved when Chris butts his way into the conversation. He feels a little bad for him.

Jean-Jacques turns on him. ‘Can you believe this guy?’ he complains.

‘Yeah, sure, listen. I’m gonna go to Japan—’

‘Cool, have fun, tell me how it goes. Now you—’ The song god turns back to accost the DJ again, but the man has already disappeared without a trace.

Chris takes the chance to abscond too.

\--

By some miracle, he runs into a Swiss couple passing by the nightclub. They’re dragging their luggage behind them, ready to load their bags into their car. By another miracle, Chris finds some Swiss chocolate in his pocket and offers it to them, a charming smile on his face and French spilling from his lips, and they immediately bond over their memories of home.

The word stings.

It’s not home without _him_.

He’s tired, and he’s falling apart at the seams. The miracles are starting to take a toll on him. It’s too much. Everything is too much. He’s spent too much of himself in too short a span of time.

He can pour his soul into miracles, but he can’t turn back time.

The couple offers him a ride to the airport with them. He tells them that he’s going to Japan.

Oh, they say, Japan is lovely this time of the year.

It is, he agrees with a smile.

On the drive to the airport, the roads are unusually clear. They arrive at the airport in record time. In a pleasant turn of events, the couple gets upgraded to first-class for their flight home. They call him their lucky charm and bid him _au revoir_ with lovely smiles. He smiles back, and wishes them a good trip. He approaches the counter, and asks about tickets for the next flight to Japan, please. Miraculously, there’s a last-minute dropout on the plane departing in fifteen minutes. He secures a ticket. The journey is smooth and he arrives at Narita Airport without any incident.

Just as he expected, Vitya is there, waiting for him.

‘Yo, Chris.’

He doesn’t expect to pass out.

\--

When he wakes up in the Hasetsu Inn feeling like death, the first thing he does is dig out his phone.

 _February 13 th, 2:03PM_.

Shit. No time.

He miracles himself into a more presentable state. It’s a poor decision. Dark spots dance in his vision, blooming circles of black threatening to overwhelm him again.

 _Shit_.

While he struggles to hold on to consciousness, the wooden door slides open.

‘Don’t you think that’s enough?’ Vitya asks mildly, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe. He’s dressed in a plain green yukata.

Some of them really are turning local.

Chris smiles, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head and the odd emptiness in a place he can’t quite describe. ‘You know how it gets on Valentine’s. I’ll be fine.’ His vision is clearing, slowly. He sits up, and the vertigo throws him all out of sorts again.

‘You were leaving a red-hot trail with your name stamped all over the interference. The last time you bombarded the world with this many miracles, it was World War— Which one was it again?’ His tone is too light.

He shoots a look at Vitya. Or, well, at least he tries to. ‘Some of us need to do our jobs.’

‘The Pantheon has no hold over us,’ he says coldly. ‘Not anymore.’

Outside, thunder booms.

‘Yeah? They’ve got a leash on me, that’s for sure.’ He flings his phone across the room. He tries to, at least. It’s such a weak toss that it lands on the foot of the fluffy bed.

Vitya sounds bored but curious. ‘Well then, what’ve they got in store for you this year?’

Chris inhales. Then he exhales evenly. ‘They said it would be the last.’

Vitya narrows his eyes. He steps in, closing the door behind him. ‘Let me take care of it—’

‘You can’t,’ Chris says bitterly.

‘And why not?’ Viktor challenges, striding up to the bed and staring Chris in the eye. His expression is intense, but his gaze is painfully clear. ‘I offer to trample all over my principles for you, and you tell me that I _can’t_?’

There’s a bitterness in the back of Chris’s throat when he forces his words out. ‘Fine, you _won’t,_ and you know exactly why, don’t you? Do you want me to spell out my death sentence for you?’

Silence, but not the stunned sort. Then, of course, Viktor seethes. ‘Is this a joke to them?’

‘You know how They can get,’ Chris says wanly. ‘I don’t know what They’re thinking anymore.’

Up There is a touchy subject with Viktor, and Chris is his closest friend. It’s not a surprise when he snaps. ‘Nothing’s changed—’

‘No,’ Chris cuts in, ‘we’ve all changed. Don’t you see? We’ve been away too long. We don’t know the Pantheon anymore. I don’t even remember my _garden_ anymore, Vitya.’

‘So this is it, then? All part of the Pantheon’s plan? _Give them each other and drag them back_ —’

‘No. All I was told was to play cupid for the both of you.’

‘Then why would you want to go back?’

‘Because they’re being kind—’

‘ _Kind_?’ Viktor laughs. It’s a mocking, sardonic sound. ‘Have you forgotten? They used us for their own means. We didn’t get to decide shit, and when we did, they’d send another one of us to punish each other.’

‘They’re letting you two be happy together, even if They don’t think it’s right. And They promised me _him_ ,’ Chris confesses quietly. ‘Forever. Not just one day out of a whole shitty lonely year.’

Viktor’s heart remains frozen. ‘You chose to love a mortal, and now they’re making you pay for it. I can’t let you manipulate Yuuri into their plans,’ he says curtly.

‘What if they have _no_ plans? For fuck’s sake, Viktor, I know how you feel about each other! I’m the god of love, you can’t hide this shit from me!’

Viktor’s expression is hard with anger. ‘So what? What would the union of a god of victory and a god of _sex_ bring to the table? Our dominions have _nothing_ in common, and the Pantheon doesn’t make decisions where it doesn’t stand to gain anything.’

‘It let _me_ go,’ Chris says coldly, ‘and if you think that the Pantheon stands to gain anything by taking the _god of love_ out of the dating pool, then fine, get out.’

Lightning crashes down beyond the window just as white-hot anger flashes in Viktor’s eyes.

He slams the door behind him when he leaves.

Alone, sitting up in bed, Chris numbly stares at the phone lying just beyond his reach.

He gets up and dials a number.

\--

He’s so glad that Vitya had dragged him into learning Japanese all those eons ago.

‘Sorry to spring this on you all of a sudden,’ Chris says sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. He hands over the cup of coffee in his hands. He’d run into a coffee shop on the way to snag a couple of apology gifts.

The lady standing in front of him is all smiles, gratefully accepting the coffee. ‘Oh no, it’s alright! Christophe, right?’

They’re in Ice Castle Hasetsu, a local ice rink run by Yuuko and her husband. It’s a ten minute jog from Hasetsu Inn. Chris had taken twenty minutes to walk there in the pouring rain. He must be getting old.

The dark spots are teetering on the edge of his vision again. ‘Yeah, Chris is fine. And you’re Yuuko?’

She leans against the counter. ‘Yup! I’ve heard of you, but I don’t think you would’ve seen me around in the Pantheon.’

‘Oh? Pardon me, my memory’s been awful lately. You’re…’

The silence is almost painfully awkward to Chris’s ears. It doesn’t help that it’s a quiet day at the rink, so it’s practically just the two of them and a whole lot of awkward silence. Awkward.

‘Nishigori and I are minor gods,’ she explains, unruffled. ‘We only came down recently. But we’ve known Yuuri since the very beginning, so we’re glad to be able to spend time with him again! The Pantheon hasn’t been the same since, well…’ Yuuko trails off.

The Incident had shaken everyone, even the ones who’d stayed Up There. ‘Yeah,’ Chris says empathically. ‘Sorry about… well, yeah.’

Viktor had been unhappy with the Pantheon after the fiasco that had been the end of World War One. They shouldn’t have signed the treaty, he’d argued. Everyone knew what he’d really been saying.

_‘You shouldn’t have made me exert my influence on them.’_

He’d paid dearly for his insubordination. The higher echelons of the Pantheon had voted to rip off the god of victory’s wings.

And then, of course, World War Two came along and Chris knows he’ll never forget the horrors he had seen when he’d gone down to earth with Viktor and his band of renegades and tried to set things right. In the first world war, everything had been easy. They were just missions to be fulfilled. There wasn’t any sort of accountability or blame to be dealt out.

In the second world war, Chris had to choose who deserved to die.

He counts to ten in his mind. Slowly, painfully slowly, the images of war begin to fade, and he sees the brilliant, peaceful world around him again.

They’d been standing in silence for a long while before Yuuko takes a deep breath and abruptly confesses, ‘I don’t think what They did was right.’

Chris blinks. ‘Sorry, come again?’

‘They shouldn’t have taken her wings,’ she says firmly.

‘Er, she’s a he right now.’

‘Oh! But yeah. Same thing applies.’

If only Vitya were here to hear this, he thinks bitterly. ‘I’ll be sure to convey the message.’ Maybe he’d finally be less of a stubborn twat.

Yuuko doesn’t notice the chip in his façade. ‘But you’re here to discuss Yuuri, right?’ she continues cheerfully.

Chris nods.

‘Yurio mentioned that you’d be asking me about how to get him to confess or something? Geez, honestly,’ she sighs, resting her chin in her hands, ‘he’s always been like this. His performance anxiety is pretty bad. If you don’t take his mind off the issue he always does poorer than he should.’

‘If you don’t mind me asking, how did the Pantheon…’ He doesn’t want to use the word “use,” especially since he knows it’s Viktor talking through him, but he can’t think of another word.

Yuuko laughs. ‘Of course They didn’t make him _do_ anything. They just got him to ensure that people had sex, that’s all. Mostly to ensure lines of succession. Although there were a couple of jobs that were… odd.’ She frowns.

‘Odd?’

‘Yeah, some that just seemed kinda pointless. I guess They wanted some mortals to lose some steam? In any case,’ Yuuko shrugs, ‘Yuuri’s never really been interested in anyone before the goddess— Er, sorry, my bad—god of victory, so I wouldn’t know what he’s like when he’s actually using his divine influence on himself or the people around him.’

‘I see,’ Chris frowns. ‘So just get his mind off his troubles, huh?’ Time to bust out the alcohol.

‘Yeah! Good luck with your—’

Suddenly, a hesitant voice cuts in. ‘Yuuko? Who…’

Chris turns his head so quickly that he hears something crack in his neck.

Yuuri is standing at the entrance to the rink, a bag slung over one shoulder. He’s staring at Chris with recognition burning in his wide eyes. ‘Chris?’

Okay, play it cool. ‘Hey, Yuuri. Sorry for crashing your place without any warning.’ Chris rubs the back of his head sheepishly.

‘Ah, no, that’s not a problem. Please take care of yourself,’ the sex god chides gently. Sometimes Chris wonders how this adorable kid ended up as the god of _sex_ , of all things. Why not god of the hearth? Heck, he’d probably be a better love god than Chris.

‘Yeah, don’t worry about me! It’s just Valentine’s. Busy time. I’ll be back to normal once all of this blows over.’ _I hope_.

‘I feel you,’ Yuuko sighs. Now that Chris is taking a proper look at her, she does a little drained. ‘Mortals are _awfully_ particular about their flowers, aren’t they?’

She sounds just like the higher-ups at the Pantheon, the ones that Viktor hates with a burning passion. She probably came down very recently, Chris thinks.

Yuuri looks apologetic when he says, ‘Oh, I see. I don’t have to work as hard as you guys, I guess.’

‘Humans are horny,’ Chris tells Yuuko with a theatrical sigh. ‘If only love came as easily to them.’ It takes so much more to get people to confess than to get them to roll into bed with random strangers.

She giggles in response.

‘Oh! That reminds me, Chris, can I talk to you for a second?’ Yuuri’s polite, but there’s no hesitation in his voice. It feels more like a command.

‘Sure.’ _Shit, shit, shit_ —

‘I’ll go check on the triplets,’ Yuuko says brightly, humming as she leaves. She’s sharper than he’d thought.

Yuuri leads him to the changing rooms. It’s empty except for the two of them. He slings his bag off his shoulders and puts it by the bench, then sits down, his hands on his knees.

The god of sex takes a deep breath.

Chris swallows the lump in his throat.

‘I want a Valentine’s miracle.’

Are you fucking kidding me. ‘What?’ Chris’s exclamation echoes in the room and blasts back into his own eardrums. He winces.

There’s steel in his voice. This isn’t the Yuuri he’d been making idle conversation with earlier. ‘Make Viktor accept me.’

‘How much did you hear?’ Chris demands.

‘Enough. Viktor might have forgotten that my room is next door.’ Oh dear. Yuuri’s gaze is intense. Chris has been face-to-face with too many intense gazes today. ‘You’re the god of love, right? You can tell when people are feeling real love, or whatever you call it, right?’

‘I mean, there’s different types of love—’

‘Do I love Viktor?’

What a silly question. Chris could’ve felt their love for each other from all the way in the alternate dimension of the Pantheon if he’d wanted to. ‘Yeah?’

‘So it’s not him _wanting_ me to fall for him or anything right?’

He’s fumbling to stay on the conversation. ‘Well, I mean, when you like someone you generally want them to like you _back_ —’

Yuuri is curt when he asks, ‘Is he using his powers on me or not?’

Okay, that’s it, he’s completely lost. ‘What? No! Of course not, I haven’t felt them since, what, nineteen eighteen?’

‘Then he’s full of shit,’ Yuuri growls.

Why is everyone acting so odd today? ‘Sorry, what?’

Yuuri lets out a frustrated sigh. ‘He keeps acting like he’s worried about influencing me with his powers or something when in reality, he’s just using me as an excuse for his petty revenge at the Pantheon, isn’t he?’

Oh dear, lover’s spat, this is _not good_. ‘I’m sure he’s not thinking that,’ Chris tries to say placatingly. ‘He does love you! A lot! Like, Yuri-almost-barfed-on-me A Lot.’

‘Yuri told him to grow the hell up and move on,’ Yuuri says blandly. ‘He’s the only one holding on to that grudge against the Pantheon when everyone else can tell that he belongs Up There. Sometimes it feels like I’m the one holding him back—’

Chris tries to cut in, ‘No you’re not—’ but Yuuri’s already talking over him.

‘—but really he’s the only one holding himself back! I know he misses it! His castle, his crown, his _wings_. He loved his wings.’ Yuuri’s holding his head in his hands. ‘He could’ve righted the world with those wings.’

Hesitantly, Chris takes a seat next to the god. He takes a quick peek at his emotions. His aura is firm and resolute, completely at odds with the tears streaming down his face.

Here goes nothing. ‘He’ll listen to you,’ Chris says quietly.

‘He’ll listen to you, too.’

‘He’d better,’ Chris grumbles, and Yuuri laughs, wiping away his tears with the back of his hand. Okay, good. Laughing Yuuri is good.

‘Then help me,’ Yuuri pleads, but it doesn’t feel weak when he does it. In fact, Chris is the one who feels like a cornered lamb. ‘I want Viktor. I want to be the god who stole Viktor from the Pantheon.’

‘You’ve already got his heart,’ Chris points out.

‘But the Pantheon is still under his skin, and I hate that. I want to be the only thing he’s ever close to obsessing over.’

When Chris tries to get a read on Yuuri, he finds that he can’t get anything. So he’s not talking about something as innocent as a date, then.

Oh boy.

He thinks back to his own abysmal confession. His powers had gone completely haywire that day. ‘Er— Just saying, you might want to be careful about losing control—’

‘I won’t be the one losing control,’ Yuuri says sweetly.

Chris’s mind implodes. His mouth runs before his short-circuiting brain can stop it. ‘Oh? Do I get an invite?’

‘Not this time, sorry.’ What a shame.

Chris shrugs. ‘Oh well. I guess I’ll book into a hotel for tonight then.’

Yuuri smirks, and Chris is sharply reminded of his area of jurisdiction as a deity. Viktor’s a lucky god.

‘You do that.’

\--

The euphoric relief hits him after he checks into the room.

It’s dark outside when he gets to the hotel, even though it’s mid-afternoon. The storm clouds are grey and bleak, shadowing the sleepy town of Hasetsu under the blanket of false-night.

When he crosses the threshold of the front door to his hotel room, it does not stir. Overhead, a sphere of light slowly fades into existence, casting warm candlelight onto the clean white walls and the pale blue wallpaper, imbuing the pattern-repeated logo of the hotel with a soft golden glow. He slips off his shoes, bending down to arrange them neatly at the side of the entryway. He turns back to close the front door, which swings shut with the faintest of creaks.

He walks past the kitchenette. The electric kettle switches on, even though it’s not plugged in, and the inside of the kettle fills with some kind of thick liquid. Soon, the vaguely pleasant smell of manna morphs into that of a light green tea.

He puts down his bag and pulls the little rice basket out of his pocket.

‘I’m home,’ he calls out, leaving echoes in the silence of the empty hotel room.

He opens the _kradib khao neow_ ’s lid. There’s nothing inside.

Hands trembling, he sets the rice basket on the kitchenette counter. He walks over to the single bed and sits down, waiting. Always waiting.

Behind him, in a corner of the room, a figure rises from the shadows. Its footfalls echo in the silence of the room as it makes its way over to Chris. It has the gait of something that once knew how to walk, but had forgotten from disuse, like a skilled artist who hadn’t practiced his craft for years.

Same as always, Chris sits on the edge of the bed, waiting.

The figure clambers onto the plush bed, its knees sinking into the softness. The bed sinks a little, and the motion sends Chris tilting backward. With every inch the figure gets closer, the more Chris leans back until his head is lying against its chest. From behind, a pair of arms wrap around him tightly.

The embrace is warm and solid. He leans back wholly into his lover’s touch.

By his side, the newest god of death lets out a faint hum as he strokes small, teasing circles against Chris’s hipbone. ‘Thank you for everything,’ he whispers.

Chris chooses to express his feelings a little more directly, tilting his head back to kiss his lover.

‘I missed you too.’

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Chris's studio apartment [floorplan](http://cdn.home-designing.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/studio-apartment-floor-plans.jpeg)
> 
> Chris's studio apartment aesthetic [1](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/8d/e8/97/8de89747a7abdb9eb3ecc7d0996c9992.jpg) [2](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/fb/d9/24/fbd924cc99927a64f1c5ee942eb67bc1.jpg) [3](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/16/8d/3a/168d3aae702c6af31f474abdf78f2f8d.jpg)
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/_antikytheras)


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